The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [256]
And, on sitting up in her armchair, she assumed a more graceful and still more abandoned position than when she was lying back.
Felton stood up.
“You will be served like this three times a day, Madame,” he said. “At nine o’clock in the morning, at one o’clock in the afternoon, and at eight o’clock in the evening. If that does not suit you, you may indicate your own hours in place of those I have proposed to you, and on this point your desires will be followed.”
“But am I then to remain forever alone in this big, sad room?” asked Milady.
“A woman from the neighborhood has been informed, she will come to the castle tomorrow, and will return anytime you desire her presence.”
“I thank you, Monsieur,” the prisoner replied humbly.
Felton made a slight bow and headed for the door. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, Lord de Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier who had gone to bring him the news of Milady’s fainting. He was holding a vial of smelling salts.
“Well, what’s this? What’s going on here?” he asked in a mocking voice, on seeing his prisoner standing and Felton about to leave. “So the dead woman has resurrected? Pardieu, Felton, my boy, don’t you see that you are being taken for a novice, and the first act of a comedy is being played for you, of which we will no doubt have the pleasure of following all the developments?”
“That is just what I thought, Milord,” said Felton. “But, finally, as the prisoner is a woman, after all, I wanted to show all the consideration that any well-born man owes to a woman, if not for her sake, then at least for his own.”
Milady shivered all over. These words of Felton’s went like ice through all her veins.
“And so,” de Winter picked up, laughing, “that beautiful hair artfully displayed, that white skin, and that languorous look haven’t seduced you yet, you heart of stone?”
“No, Milord,” replied the impassive young man, “and believe me, it will take more than a woman’s wiles and advances to corrupt me.”
“In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to think up something else and go to supper. Ah, don’t worry, she has a fertile imagination, and the second act of the comedy won’t be slow in coming!”
And with these words Lord de Winter put his arm under Felton’s and led him off, laughing.
“Oh, I’ll surely find what will work on you,” Milady murmured between her teeth, “don’t worry, poor would-be monk, poor converted soldier, who have had your uniform cut from a cassock.”
“By the way,” de Winter went on, stopping in the doorway, “don’t let this failure take away your appetite. Try the chicken and the fish—on my honor, I haven’t had them poisoned. I get on well with my cook, and as he doesn’t stand to inherit anything from me, I have full and complete confidence in him. Do as I do. Good-bye, dear sister, until you faint again!”
This was as much as Milady could bear: her hands clenched the chair, her teeth ground secretly, her eyes followed the movement of the door that closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton; and when she saw herself alone, a new crisis of despair came over her. She glanced at the table, saw the gleam of a knife, rushed and seized it; but she was cruelly disappointed: the blade was blunt and of flexible silver.
A burst of laughter rang out behind the half-closed door, and the door opened again.
“Ha, ha!” cried Lord de Winter. “Ha, ha, ha! You see, my brave Felton, you see what I told you? That knife was intended for you, my boy! You see, it’s one of her eccentricities to rid herself like this, one way or another, of people who get in her way. If I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed and of steel: then no more Felton. She’d have cut your throat and, after that, everybody else’s. Just look, John, how well she knows how to hold her knife.”
Indeed, Milady was still holding the offensive weapon in her clenched fist, but these last words, this supreme insult, slackened her grip, her strength, and even her will.
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